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My Regrets, Mr. Lawrence.

A hundred hands and heads bobbing up and down in unison to the beats of the drums, flags waving in the air and interspersed with the bursting of crackers – it was the evening before Mahalaya and the Mother Goddess was coming home under the blazing lights. It was the street urchins in the front, followed by the band, the men folk with bandanas on their head and then the women and children in their best attire. There was the local corporator, the owner of the local grocery store, the hardworking fisher folk, street urchins and the guys who hung out on the street corner doing nothing – all dancing to one single tune.

Mori Road was alive again and there could not have been a better welcome back home after a hard three months on the road across the western world. The idol placed on the mantle and with the midnight hour approaching the street fell silent again. This was the night of Mahalaya and like all Bengalis I adjusted my watch to set the alarm for a 4 AM wake up call to catch the chanting of the Chandi over All India Radio. The chant is the invocation of the Goddess and is quite an experience to just hear though I do not understand all that is said.

4 AM and I am fiddling with the knobs on my radio but cannot tune into the frequency. I try desperately for another half hour but no luck. I felt really sad as I had missed this last year also due to my travels and was keen to catch up this time. I strained to hear any faint note of the chant through all the static coming through but to no avail. I yanked the laptop out and connected to the net but all I got to hear was snippets of the chant from various sites. It was quite a let down. Disheartened I decided to call off my quest and headed back to bed.

However, I lay wide awake and my thoughts traveled westward, replaying all the images of the past three months. The English Bay at Vancouver, the Manhattan Heights, the London Underground - all started to became a blur after a while as I drifted in an out of consciousness. I thought I was dreaming as I heard a familiar tune play itself. It seemed clearly western. As it grew louder I became more conscious of my surroundings and stepped out on my balcony. A lone man from the band was playing the clarionet and the others were sitting around. To my amazement he was playing Beethoven’s ninth symphony – the Ode to Joy and playing it flawlessly. I almost wanted to pinch myself – here was a person from the local marriage band and playing one of the most popular western classics on a Mumbai Street in the middle of the night!

As he played his co--musicians joined him almost in a jamming session. The local street urchin across the road picked up a stick and waved it around as if conducting the orchestra. It was 6 AM and with the waving of his stick and the accompanying music as if on cue the sun rose and dawn broke on the eastern sky. It was Mahalaya.

Days ago while traveling through the London Underground I heard the tabla being played by a local Englishman in need for money. There are places in the underground earmarked for such people. I almost thought this to be magical and told my wife – you never know what you can expect in London. I wished I could wake her up to witness the magic at Mori Road.

While leaving Vancouver, our building manager Lawrence told me “I am sorry that we could not convince you to stay in Vancouver any longer”. While I shook his hand and thanked for all he had done, I wish I could have explained better. My regrets Mr. Lawrence. I wish you were here.

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